He is just the kind of fellow to end by poisoning or shooting himself.' 'But why ?' 'Can't get anything done; and begins to be sore troubled on his wife's account.' 'Is he ill ?' 'Overworked, I suppose.

But it's just what I foresaw.

He isn't the kind of man to keep up literary production as a paying business.

In favourable circumstances he might write a fairly good book once every two or three years.

The failure of his last depressed him, and now he is struggling hopelessly to get another done before the winter season.
Those people will come to grief.' 'The enjoyment with which he anticipates it!' murmured Maud, looking at her mother.
'Not at all,' said Jasper.